


Visitors

by Unforgotten



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Canon Disabled Character, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/pseuds/Unforgotten
Summary: Charles and Erik meet during the zombie apocalypse.





	Visitors

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote this two years ago and decided I totally hated it! Then I re-read it again today and decided it was fine to post with just a few edits. Go figure.
> 
> I also initially intended this to be a longer story, but that's pretty obviously unlikely to happen at this point. I suppose there is a _slight_ chance I could add a chapter someday, but what I have so far should stand alone just fine. :)

"It's a power outage, not the apocalypse," Charles said when the light went off. "Calm down."

His companion turned to look at him. His silhouette in the dark was even more attractive than his face had been in the afternoon light earlier that day. (Granted, Charles hadn't seen another living person for months before this, but Erik would have been his type whether or not they were the last two people on earth. Or at least Westchester county.)

"Was that a joke?" Erik demanded, sounding not so much annoyed as—what was that emotion? Telling one feeling from the other was a more difficult process when Charles hadn't had anyone's else's mind to read in so long, and the strongest thing Erik was feeling right now was a rising claustrophobia at being trapped in a room with one entrance in a strange house in the dark—amazed that anyone could joke about this. Apparently he'd never heard of gallows humor.

"Yes," Charles said, "and it was hilarious, if I do say so myself. Which I do."

Erik was barely listening. Charles strained to listen to his thoughts and the conclusion Erik was already reaching—that without power, they couldn't stay here. That this huge mansion was barely defensible as it was, never mind with the fences off.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. We don't have to go anywhere. We just need to turn the generator back on."

"Where is it?" Erik asked, pulling a weapon out of his belt and leaning down for something from out of his bag.

"At the back of the house." Charles wheeled over to the shelf on which he kept the bulk of his arsenal (though of course he also had various items stashed throughout the rest of the house). The bazooka he'd used to rescue Erik earlier would be a little much now, he decided; sure, it was the best thing he had for pure firepower, but only when the undead weren't potentially mulling around his valuables. Instead, he'd bring the Colt, and the bayonet, too, just in case anything got close. "Follow me—and watch yourself. Sometimes they get in."

"I'm not surprised," Erik said. "Your set-up is shit. You need to move." He walked over to the door and turned on his flashlight, which must have been what he'd gotten from his bag. "Stay behind me."

"I don't think I will," Charles said, not so much motioning for Erik to get out of the way as wheeling toward the door and trusting that Erik would decide he preferred not to be run down. "You don't know the way." Erik dodged, and Charles opened the door and headed out into the hall. "Try and keep up."

As they made their way across the house, Erik lit the way from behind, the beam of the flashlight illuminating closed door upon closed door. Charles had taken great care to keep everything locked up tight, so that if any of them got into the house through one of the windows, they'd be more or less contained in one area until he could take care of it. One either planned for eventualities or succumbed to them, these days, and there were a number of doors Charles had had to mark with a large red X so he'd remember there was a broken window contained within.

A few corridors later, Erik said, "You need a smaller house. One man can't defend all this. You'll be overrun."

"I've done all right so far," Charles said, though he nearly had been overrun, back in the beginning, when a hoard had meant to come over the fence—he'd been up on the roof for nearly twelve hours with a rifle, praying every minute that the gun wouldn't jam, the bullets wouldn't run out before the targets did, and the power wouldn't go off before the elevator had him safely on the ground floor. "I know it's not perfect, but it's what I've got."

"You couldn't have aimed for something half this size?"

Charles waited until they'd rounded the next corner to answer—he'd only come across one in the hallways a few times (and then only before he'd decided to live and stopped with the drinking so he wouldn't leave doors ajar while bumping drunkenly around in the middle of the night), but still, it didn't do to let his guard down too much in the dark, especially since he didn't come this way that often. "I'm not squatting here. My family has owned this estate since the 1800s."

"—Oh."

"Anyway, if I were to go out house-hunting, I can't imagine it would go well for me. The first time the road was blocked, I'd have to turn back around. That's not even getting into my chances of finding a wheelchair-accessible house in a low-impact area, never mind a house with a generator. No, thank you for your concern, but I'm staying put."

"Fair enough," Erik said. "Is that the back door?"

"Yes. The generator is against the house, about ten meters to the left as you go out."

Erik reached for the doorknob. "Cover me."

Well, Charles wasn't about to argue that Erik let him fight with the generator instead, but— "Don't you need instructions? I could project them into your head. It would be the easiest thing."

"Go ahead," Erik said, and Charles did, though his touch wasn't as deft as it would have been years ago.

Erik opened the door and stepped out only after surveying the open area with the flashlight. Charles followed him out into the twilight, more than a little edgy about being out when the sun wasn't—usually he locked himself in a windowless room when the power went out this close to nightfall, content to wait until daylight to venture out into the open. He'd have suggested as much to Erik if Erik hadn't felt on the verge of panic up until the moment Charles mentioned the generator. Probably Erik wouldn't have given in to it—anyone who couldn't swallow panic when needed was likely to have been killed years ago—but Charles understood why he'd feel the need to do something other than sit up all night in the dark.

Erik walked toward the generator in long, measured steps. Before approaching it, he looked around the other side, then knelt down and got to work. Meanwhile, Charles took his own flashlight out of the pouch on the side of his chair, and passed it back and forth across the lawn. He tried not to hit the fence with the beam, since light, while less likely to attract than sound, still seemed to summon them occasionally.

Sometimes, the power being out led to a crowd climbing over the fence, which Charles would have to pick off one by one the next day. This time, there didn't seem to be any at all until he sighted the crawler. There must be another hole in the fence somewhere, down by the ground. Damnit. He'd need to find that, block it up again as soon as possible. Crawlers were much more hateful to Charles than their walking counterparts. Some part of him was convinced that one day, he'd fail to notice one until it had grabbed one of his legs and torn in, and then only because of the noises it would make.

This one, though, was halfway across the lawn, moving one lurch at a time in the direction of the house. It was slow; they were usually slow, thankfully. Even with having to juggle the flashlight, Charles had plenty of time to steady the light on it, aim the rifle, and fire a single shot to its head.

After a few minutes, the generator began to thrum, and Erik stood back up. Instead of walking, he jogged back, not stopping until they were both back inside with the door closed tightly behind them.

The way back was as dark as the way there had been, and they had just passed an unmarked door when the scratching started, fingernails against wood. Charles took out a marker and draw an X on the door.

"I'll come back in the morning to take care of that," he said, in case Erik had the notion that they should tackle one or more of them in close quarters in the dark hallway.

***

When they got back to Charles' former office, which now served as his bedroom, pantry, dining room, and sometimes bathroom if there was a reason he couldn't hop two doors down to use the toilet, Charles returned to the subject of where Erik was to sleep tonight, which he'd been about to broach when the power had gone out.

"I'm afraid I need the bed, but there's an air mattress in the closet somewhere." He waved vaguely in its direction. "There are canned vegetables in the cupboard, feel free to help yourself. And you're welcome to look at any of my books—though those don't leave the house, please."

"That's fine," Erik said, and then: "Thank you. For before, too."

"You're welcome. It really wasn't a problem. I don't have company very often, so." Charles had been glad to sense another sentient mind within range—at least once he'd managed to get there without anything blocking his way, and come to the rescue before Erik had gotten himself bitten. Once he was sure it would be all right. Then, he'd been glad.

"You're not worried about me?" asked Erik, meaning was Charles worried Erik would rob him—take the food and weapons Charles needed to survive, leaving him stranded and helpless against the tide. 

"Mm, not really. Telepath, remember? You'd never have stepped foot inside this house if you meant me any harm."

For dinner, Charles picked out a can of asparagus, debating over the six types of vegetables his cupboard contained before settling. He'd just dug in when Erik said, "Do you want that warmed up?"

Before Charles could answer, the can began to warm itself in his hands, until the food inside was hot enough to make ingesting it rather more pleasant than it otherwise would have been. For himself, Erik heated up a can of beans, which he left floating in the air for a while, with a spoon stirring the contents as they bubbled within.

Once they were finished eating, Charles asked, "Are you headed anywhere in particular?" They'd only met a few hours before, but already he hoped the answer would be 'no'—not that he'd ever hoped otherwise with the few visitors he'd had. This house got lonely, and no one ever wanted to stay. "If you are, I hope you're headed south. The winters are easier down there. Not as much snow, you know."

In the old days, he might have cringed at the inanity of that last statement. But these weren't the old days, and most people on their own were glad for any chance to talk to another person—or to be talked at, regardless of the subject at hand or any awkwardness. 

Erik didn't seem to be any different in that regard; he set the now-empty can of beans down, stretched his legs out in front of the armchair in which he sat, and said, "I'm looking for other survivors."

"You mean you're looking for soldiers." Charles had always seen the meaning behind other people's words. It was the most basic and most innate part of his ability. Other aspects he had to reach for, but he always saw both the shadow and the object which had cast it. Even when he was deliberately not looking, he'd still catch the movement out of the corner of his eye—and he was looking now. "You want to hunt them down. You want to kill them all."

"That's the idea," Erik said.

"Well, that's a new one," Charles said. Most of the survivors he'd met wanted only to make it to somewhere where they and their loved ones—sometimes family and friends from before, but just as often strangers, met by chance and banded together by choice—would be safe. (This was nearly as foolish, in all honesty; there was nowhere safe. Some places were merely less unsafe than others.) "You're going to die, but I wish you the best of luck."

Erik laughed, a harsh sound, and rusty. It had probably been quite some time since he'd laughed at anything. "Are all telepaths as blunt as you?"

"Only the ones who are secretly convinced that everyone else can read their thoughts, too," Charles said. "Which is all of us. May as well say what you mean." He gave it a moment for effect, then added, "You're an idiot, by the way." This surprised another laugh out of Erik, though shorter and quieter than the first. More seriously, Charles added, "You can't take on billions of them alone, my friend. Or even with a handful of allies. That's madness."

"You could come with me," Erik said, suddenly serious too. "Your telepathy—you found me. You could find others."

"That's absurd. I can't come with you, anymore than I can go out house shopping." In demonstration, Charles whacked the arm of his wheelchair with the heel of his hand. This was less persuasive than he had planned on, as his wheelchair chose that moment to levitate several inches above ground before lowering back down. "Yes, well, I can't depend on you. You could have a heart attack in your sleep one night, or worse." They both knew what 'worse' meant, which object cast that shadow. "Besides, I hardly know you. And you don't know me. I'm confident that you're not a thief or a cannibal, but you can hardly say you're sure of the same about me."

It didn't actually matter, from Charles' end, that they'd only just met; non-psionics liked to think of telepathy as a a shallow, easy way to feel close to someone, but that wasn't the way it worked, at least not for him. Seeing into someone's mind was more like stripping away all those outer layers to get to what mattered the most, there at the center. He didn't know Erik's life story, barely knew any details about him at all, yet he felt easy around him already, as if they'd known each other for years. Maybe it was a shortcut, but it wasn't a cheat—not in Charles' estimation, at least.

"Fair enough," Erik said. Charles was a little offended that he didn't at least show some skepticism at the idea of Charles being a cannibal. "But you can't stay locked up here forever. I'm surprised your generator's lasted this long. It's too old for you to count on much longer. You're not going to have running water forever, either. And if you're eating out of cans, you're going to run out someday."

In the span of twenty seconds, he'd struck most of Charles' major concerns, the things he might not have to worry about for months or years, but could, in the case of water or the generator in particular, have to face as early as tomorrow. He tried not to dwell on any of it, any more than he tried to dwell on the fact that, one of these days, he was going to get sick—catch the flu and have it turn into pneumonia, or develop a UTI with no hope of getting hold of antibiotics. If he thought about it too much, the fear would drown him.

"Do you have any suggestions, or are you just trying to scare me so I'll agree to be your pet telepath?" It didn't feel like that was what Erik was doing, it seemed like genuine concern, but two things Charles had always hated, whether he had to face them twice a day or twice a year, were condescension and pity. Clearly anyone who had survived this long had to be at least halfway competent, and he loathed it when people acted like he wasn't, or must have no idea of the dangers. Four years after the plague, he was still shooting the dangers at least three times a week.

You _should_ be scared, was what Erik was thinking, but all he said was, "I can look at your generator again tomorrow. There may be something I can do. I'll make a trip to the nearest town, too, bring back some food and fuel if I can find any."

"Oh. Thank you. I appreciate it." Charles probably would have asked for something from Erik tomorrow anyway—everyone lived under a barter system now, and nearly everyone Charles met had been happy to do him a favor for a favor, especially if the favor he'd offered them had involved his charging to the rescue. It was how he _hadn't_ run out of food yet, and how he'd kept in things like laundry soap, lightbulbs, and all-important ammunition. "Well, I'm going to bed." He'd once been a night owl, staying up into the small hours and sleeping until after noon whenever he could get away with it. Now he synced his schedule with the sun inasmuch as possible. "I'll need the overhead light off, but you're welcome to read by the lamp if you want to."

"I'll do that," Erik said.

By the time Charles had transferred into bed, Erik had opened a book, seeming genuinely pleased at the luxury of being able to sit and read into the night. If he knew he was being observed, which he surely must, he gave no sign of caring—which worked very well for Charles, for he very much wanted the opportunity to look his fill. Erik was really very handsome indeed, and not half as dirty or grimey as some of the people Charles had slept with over the past few years. He could, and had, done much worse.

When he was actually in danger of nodding off, Charles said, "If you're gay or desperate, I also don't mind sharing the bed."

Erik looked up from the book. "Was that a come-on?"

"Apparently not a very good one. Yes, it was a come-on. The only ambiguity here is whether you intend to take me up on it."

There wasn't even that much ambiguity in that; Erik was looking at him in a way that bespoke both assessment and interest. In the old days, maybe he would or maybe he wouldn't have responded in the affirmative, but here at the end of the world, well. Most everyone who was still here knew to take what offered itself when they had the chance.

"I'm not desperate," Erik said after giving Charles a long and considering look, and got up from the air mattress.

It had been a long time since Charles had had anyone in his bed. It had to have been at least a year and a half since the last time. As for his prescription, he had begun to wonder how long a shelf life Viagra actually had. Four years had to have cut its effectiveness to some extent. But though Charles had nearly forgotten what to do with his hands, it came back to him quickly enough in the moment, and the little blue pill did its work diligently as well. 

Afterward, it was really very nice just to lie next to another living person, feeling that much less alone than he had before. It was a loneliness that would come back tenfold when Erik left and Charles was alone again, but for tonight there was a little company here in the dark.

"You should stay for a while," Charles said, when Erik was asleep enough that he probably wouldn't respond, but awake enough that he'd probably know that Charles was talking to him. "A week or two, at least. You don't even know about that thing I can do with my tongue yet. I'm told it's very nice."

He had the sense, already, that if he made a list of things to do to make this house a little more secure, Erik wouldn't leave until it was all taken care of. In addition to fuel for the generator and food, there was a breach in the fence somewhere that needed repaired, and a dozen windows that needed to be boarded up. Maybe, if the list were long enough, Erik would stay for the winter, warming Charles' bed at night and grumbling about unsafe everything was all the while. Charles thought he'd like that very much.

"Mmm," Erik murmured into the pillow, definitely not conscious enough to be tracking any of the nonsense coming out of Charles' mouth, or to suspect any ulterior motives.

But that was all right. If he didn't stay a single more night, it was still very good not to be alone for this one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Unexpected (Visitors, Remix of)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367618) by [Fullmetalcarer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fullmetalcarer/pseuds/Fullmetalcarer)




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